


On a road that I don't know

by nevermindedanyway



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Coming Out, Getting Together, Jossed, M/M, Past Kent/Jack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4517100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevermindedanyway/pseuds/nevermindedanyway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jack Zimmermann joins the NHL, and realises that there are some things that are more important than hockey. (Almost, but not quite, in that order.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom (and lots of googling) is my only source of info on the NHL. If anyone would be willing to look over further chapters to check they're not too far off-base I would be incredibly grateful! DM me if you're interested.

It’s past midnight when the phone rings, startling Jack out of the half-doze he had fallen into on his couch, a nature documentary burbling softly in the background from his enormous television on the wall. He answers it without taking note of the caller ID.

 

“Oh, God, Jack, I’m so glad you’re still up, I’m so sorry but Shitty wasn’t picking up and I didn’t know who else to call, I don’t know what to do, it’s all gone so wrong, I thought it would be _okay_ but--”

 

“Bittle?”

 

“I… yes, sorry,” Jack hears Bittle take a shuddering breath down the crackling phone line. “Hi. I probably should have lead with that, shouldn’t I.”

 

He’s not spoken to Bittle since graduation, not properly. They had exchanged a few texts, but every time Bittle rang, Jack found he just couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone.

 

“What’s happened? Are you okay?”

 

Bittle laughs, and it’s a jagged, raw sound. “No. No, I’m not. I, I came out to my parents and… well, it didn’t go well.”

 

“Chit.” Jack sits up properly now, swinging his feet down onto the floor. “Where are you? Are you at home? Are you safe?” Adrenaline is thrumming through his body, for all that he knows Georgia is too far away from Providence for him to be able to do anything useful right away.

 

“I said I was going for a walk. I’m okay, my neighbourhood’s pretty safe, I just, I couldn’t sit there and listen to--” Bitty breaks off with a choked-off sob. “The things Coach was saying, I didn’t, I mean, I was worried but I think deep down I thought it would be okay, you know? And to find out-- to find out it’s _not_ \--” He breaks off again, and Jack wants to reach down the phone and gather Bittle in a hug.

 

“Crisse, Bitty, I’m sorry. What can I do?” He rubs a hand over his face, tries to get his thoughts in order. “Do you, do you need somewhere to stay? I have a spare room and I could pay for your flight if--”

 

“I-- goodness, I would so love to just _leave_ , but I couldn’t ask you to--”

 

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.”

 

Bittle huffs a sigh. “That’s really kind of you.”

 

“I can book you a ticket right now if you need.”

 

Bittle chuckles, his breath catching in a half-sob again. “I-- can I get back to you on that? I should probably stay here, try to work things out. If I can.”

 

“Sure. Let me know. The offer’s open. Any time.” He feels so impotent, thousands of miles away while Bittle is having this huge crisis. It’s not a good feeling.

 

“Thanks, Jack.” Bittle’s voice has softened; he sounds almost fond.

 

They both fall silent. Jack sighs. _This_  is why he’s not been able to pick up the phone to Bittle these past few weeks. He’s never been good with words, and this… _thing_... between them has only made it worse. He’s incapable of stringing more than a few words together at a time without seizing up. It’s just, it’s always there, hovering; the knowledge that if he was just a little braver, if he could only close the space (inches; miles) between them, then maybe-- But he knows it’s stupid, it wouldn’t be fair to either of them and he should just let it go. He’s not done so well at that, this past month.

 

Bittle chuckles again, a little wetly. “Right. I should probably head back, I don’t want my mom to worry too much. I-- Thanks, Jack, for, for picking up, and listening, and-- yeah, just. Thanks.”

 

“Any time, Bittle,” Jack finds himself saying. “Just, call me if you need anything? To talk, or-- whatever. I’ll do better at picking up.”

 

“Thanks, Jack,” Bittle says again. “I should go, though. Bye, now.” He hangs up.

 

“...Bye, Bittle,” Jack says to the dead air.

 

He texts Bittle the next morning when he wakes up. It takes him much longer than it should, as he tries to find the right words to say. His attempts range from the brief ( _u okay?_ ) to the impotent ( _I hope things are better this morning_ ), and eventually he gives up and just asks, _how are you doing?_

 

_i’m ok, coach gone out, making pie with mama b_

 

That’s a relief. If Suzanne is on-side and it’s just Coach reacting badly then maybe Bittle will be okay. He’s not been thrown out, at least.

 

Jack feels oddly shaken by the whole thing. He can’t imagine what it’s like for Bittle, who has always just seemed so _himself_ , so comfortable with who he is that Jack had pretty much forgotten he wasn’t out to his parents yet. Whereas Jack… well, getting caught with your hand down your teammate’s pants when you’re eighteen is one way of ripping off that particular band-aid. He’s almost grateful; he knows himself well enough by now to know there’s no way he would have come out to his parents without that forcing his hand. Even after everything went to shit with Parse and the overdose and rehab, he doesn’t think he could have told them. He even struggles to find the words to talk about his feelings with Shitty, who’s still the only person Jack’s actually said the words “I’m gay” to.

 

Shitty skypes him that afternoon.

 

“Jack, you beautiful motherfucker! How’s Providence treating you?”

 

“...Shits, are you naked?”

 

“Brah, you know better than to ask me that,” Shitty says, swinging his sock-clad feet up onto his desk, into view of his laptop camera.

 

Shitty tells him about the trials and tribulations of apartment hunting in Boston (“I need to be somewhere I can let it all hang out, for less than $700 a month. I need some hockey room mates, bro.”) and Jack starts to tell Shitty about his latest series of meetings with the team staff (charity work, this time), when he remembers that Bittle had said he tried to call Shitty first last night.

 

“Uh… Shits,” he says, not sure where to start.

 

“Yeah bro?”

 

“Did Bittle call you?”

 

Shitty frowns. “Not that I saw, why? What’s up?”

 

That’s odd. Jack figures Bittle won’t mind him telling Shitty anyway, so he explains last night’s phone call.

 

“Shit, man. That’s fucking awful,” Shitty says. “I’ll call Bitty today, see how he is.”

 

“Good. I can’t believe his dad was so… well, I mean, I can, but it’s just... “ Jack sighs. “He shouldn’t have to deal with that sort of shit. Ever. And when it comes from your parents, it’s just that much worse.”

 

Shitty’s looking at him intently now, a sympathetic grimace on his face. “You’d know, brah.”

 

“Well, sort of, I guess. I think my parents were more pissed that I was drinking, than that I was fooling around with Parse.” Jack says.

 

“Bro.” Shitty’s eyebrows are practically up in his hairline.

 

“Uh…” It hits Jack that he had failed to mention the Parse aspect of this particular coming-out story before now.

 

“Bro, seriously? _That’s_  why you hate Parson so much? Shit, man.”

 

“Uh,” Jack says, eloquently.

 

“Wow. Jacky-boy, I can’t believe you kept that one to yourself all this time!” Shitty’s grinning now, and Jack suddenly realises how very, very wrong this could all go.

 

“Shitty, you can’t tell anyone. I’m serious.” But Shitty’s not listening to him; he’s spinning around in his desk chair, whooping gleefully.

 

Jack’s stomach swoops low and nauseating. His heart is thudding in his chest. There’s a roaring in his ears. Shitty continues to cackle and spin.

 

Jack takes a deep, gasping breath and bellows, “SHITTY! STOP! LISTEN!”

 

Shitty brings his twirling to an abrupt halt. “Bro, what?”

 

“You can’t tell anyone this. It could end his career.” Jack can feel his palms sweating, his hands shaking. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to say it.”

 

“Woah, woah, Jack, no. I wouldn’t.” Shitty is making calm down motions with his arms, palms up, facing the screen. “You’re okay, it’s okay, I’d never say anything to anyone, I swear.”

 

“Right,” Jack says, trying to bring himself back under control, “of course.”

 

“You all right? You need a minute?”

 

“I’m going to go get some water, I’ll be right back,” Jack says, and he can hear his voice has gone reedy and thin, wavering a little as he talks.

 

When he gets back, Shitty has his face right up against his computer screen.

 

“I’m so sorry bro, that was really fucking insensitive of me. I’m an asshole. You okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine, you’re fine,” Jack says. “Move away from your screen, Shits, I can see right up your nose.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short update! More to come soon!

Jack lets himself slip back into the habit of texting Bittle every day, the way he had been over winter break, before he’d admitted to himself what was really going on. He knows it’s not sensible if he wants to keep his distance, but he’s worried about Bitty and that supersedes any self-imposed rules. He tells himself he’ll do the slow fade again once he’s sure things have settled down with Coach. He knows he’s lying to himself just a little, but he decides the fact that he can at least recognise that is a step. It’s a step.

\--

It’s a few days before the draft and he’s skyping with Bittle, who’s telling him all about the peewee team he’s helping to coach (“They are all so darling, I can’t believe I didn’t think of doing this last summer!”), when a voice from off-screen says, “Dicky, honey, could you-- oh! Is that Jack?”

Suzanne Bittle’s torso comes into view by the arm of the couch as Bittle rolls his eyes and says, “Yes, Mama, I told you I was going to call him.”

“I know dear,” Suzanne says. “How are you, Jack, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs Bittle,” Jack says, and he can’t help but grin at Bitty’s embarrassed grimace. “How are you doing?”

“Oh I’m just fine, honey, aren’t you so sweet for asking!” Bittle’s face is getting more flushed by the second. It’s adorable. (Wait, what? _Marde_.)

“Mama, Jack can’t see your face from up there, you need to bend down so he can see you,” Bittle interjects.

Suzanne’s face comes into the frame, and she waves at him. He waves back. He’s not sure what to say now, has never been good at small talk with his friends, let alone their parents. Suzanne doesn’t seem to have noticed his paralysis and carries on, telling him all about her new training regimen.

“I’ve been running with Dicky nearly every day, I’m going to be so fit this summer! Not as fit as you boys, obviously, but I lost 2 pounds last week, just in time for the fourth of July!”

“That’s great, Mrs Bittle,” says Jack.

“Speaking of, did you invite him yet, Dicky?” Suzanne turns to Bitty, who looks away guiltily. “Oh goodness, what are you like. Jack - you should come down to Georgia for the fourth. We’re having a big family barbecue, and Dicky and I would love for you to come. Experience a true southern Independence Day!”

“I-- uh, thanks, Mrs Bittle, I’d love to come,” he stammers.

“Well, that’s settled then. I’ll leave you boys to make arrangements. See you soon, young man!” She’s out of sight before he can respond.

There’s a pregnant pause. Bittle still isn’t looking at the screen, so Jack says, “I won’t come if you don’t want me to.”

Bittle looks up. “No! I mean, yes, of course I want you there! But, I’m sure you’ve got plans with your team, and you don’t need to come all the way out here just to--”

“Bittle. I’d love to come. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Oh! Um, okay, great, good, yes, okay.” Bittle seems flustered. “You sure you don’t mind? It’s okay if you’re busy.”

“I’m sure, unless you’d rather I didn’t…”

“Oh, no, I meant what I said. It’s just, well,” Bittle sits back on his couch, head bowed. “It’s likely to be a bit of an ordeal. Coach and I still aren’t really on speaking terms, so--”

“Sounds like you could use some backup. I’ll have a look at flights tonight.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late! I should be more on target with updates in the coming weeks. Thanks so much to [cementbike](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cementbike/) for looking this over, you're the best!

Jack lands in Atlanta on the afternoon of the third to find Bittle waiting for him in a metallic, cream-coloured pickup truck.

“Is this truck yours?” He can’t help but ask as he clambers up into the passenger seat.

“Goodness, no! It’s Mama’s.” Bittle laughs. “Mine? Can you imagine?”

“Well…” says Jack, trying not to grin.

“Oh, shut up.” Bittle says, starting up the engine.

They pull up to a sky-blue painted bungalow in the centre of Madison. Suzanne Bittle is out the door and down the driveway before they can even open the truck doors, herding them out and hugging “Dicky” and then Jack in quick succession.

Jack, Suzanne and Bittle are all in the kitchen when Coach Bittle arrives home. There are five different types of cobbler being assembled, and there’s flour everywhere: Jack’s hair, Bitty’s nose, and all up Suzanne’s arms.

Jack can feel Bittle’s hackles start to raise as soon as the front door opens. Jack glances at him, worried, but his eyes are steadfastly on the tomatoes he’s chopping, his mouth pressed into a flat line.

Suzanne breaks the tension, wiping her hands on a towel and bustling towards the front room. “Evening sweetheart! Come through to the kitchen, we’re making cobbler!”

There’s a low rumbling that Jack can’t quite make out and then, “Come on through and you can meet him!”

Suzanne comes back through into the kitchen, a bright, brittle smile plastered onto her face. She’s followed by a tall, stocky man, wearing a bright red jersey with _Morgan County Bulldogs_ emblazoned on the front.

He stops, and looks at Jack, a deeply unimpressed look on his face. “You must be the boyfriend.”

“Um,” says Jack. He glances at Bitty, who appears to have frozen in place. “No, sir. I’m Jack, I’m a friend of Bitty’s.” 

He holds out his hand for Coach Bittle to shake, and feels Bitty unfreeze beside him, and turn around to face his dad.

“Coach, for the last time, I don’t have a boyfriend. You _know_ who Jack is, he’s my friend, and he’s straight.”

That throws Jack for a loop. “No, I’m not,” he says, before his brain engages and he’s horrified at himself.

He can feel Bittle and Suzanne staring at him. He wishes the ground would swallow him whole.

“You’re… not? Not straight?” Bittle sounds a bit shell-shocked.

“I… thought you knew?” Jack says. He can feel his face flushing. He can’t quite believe they’re having this conversation. In front of Bittle’s parents. _Merde, merde, merde._

Coach Bittle’s staring at them both now, eyebrows raised. “Right,” he says. “I’ll be in the study.”

Suzanne follows him out, leaving Jack and Bitty staring at each other in the kitchen. 

“What do you mean, you thought I knew? How would I know that?” Bittle’s voice gets more and more high pitched as he speaks.

Jack’s at a loss. “After the kegster in December, with Parse, I thought-- I thought you must have overheard everything. I thought you knew. I thought that was why you called me last month.”

Bitty frowns in confusion. “The kegster? Parse? What-- _oh_ ,” he breathes as it clicks. “Huh.”

And that’s the second person he’s outed Parse to in the past month. Fuck.

“I didn’t realise y’all were--”

“Oh, we’re not, not any more, not really, not for a long time. You, uh, you can’t tell anyone about this, you know? Not, not your tweeters or vloggers or--”

“No! Jack! Of course not!”

“Not about me, and definitely not about Parse.” Jack feels oddly calm, not at all like the panic he felt when he let slip to Shitty about them.

“I won’t, I promise. And my parents won’t either, about you.”

“Okay,” Jack says.

They turn back to their cobbler preparations, but Jack’s mind is reeling. He had thought that something had been building between him and Bitty since the winter, but if Bittle had been under the impression he was _straight_... What does that mean? Has he imagined the whole thing? 

Maybe all this is just a one-sided crush, then. That would be much easier to deal with. It’s a relief, not a disappointment. He’d just have to wait it out, and then everything would be fine.

They’re nearly finished with the cobblers when Suzanne enters. “How y’all doing in here?”

“We’re fine, Mama, tell Coach it’s safe to come back in.” Bittle says, uncharacteristically brusque.

“The cobblers are ready for the oven now, Mrs Bittle. Which ones should we put in first?” Jack asks, and Suzanne dives back into kitchen mode, directing Bitty and Jack as though the past twenty minutes had never happened.

Dinner is predictably awkward, until Suzanne asks Jack how he’s getting on with his new teammates, which gets Coach interested. Soon they’re talking about Jack’s prospects for the upcoming season: what he thinks of the Falconers’ draft acquisitions, whether he thinks he’ll make the NHL roster this year or spend a season in the feeder team first, does he think they’ll make it past the first round in 2016. It’s all a bit much, all at once. But Jack has really missed this, the in-depth hockey talk, for all that it’s making him feel a little on edge. (His dad is so, so careful with him now about these things - he approaches it one topic at a time, keeps it brief, keeps it light. It’s nice to feel like people aren’t walking on eggshells around him, for a change.)

Bitty and Jack head out to the porch after dinner and spend the rest of the evening keeping each other company as the darkness settles around them. It’s getting late, Suzanne and Coach having turned in a couple of hours ago, and the night is quiet and warm, when Bitty says, “I’m so sorry about Coach.”

It takes Jack a little by surprise, and he’s trying to figure out how best to respond to that when Bitty continues, “Assuming you were my boyfriend, I mean. Ever since-- last month-- he’s been on and on about how Samwell must be a bad influence, or maybe it’s _that naked boy with the mustache, is he your boyfriend?_ or-- whatever. I knew it would be awful, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have made you come here.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jack says. Bittle looks so sad, curled in on himself like that, trying to occupy as little space in the world as possible. Jack can’t stand it. “You didn’t do anything. Your dad’s been fine towards me. I wanted to come and see you, so.”

Bitty looks up and smiles at him, and Jack tries valiantly to ignore the way his heart clenches at that sight.

“Do your parents know, about you?” Bittle asks after a moment, head tilted.

“Yeah. Yeah, they know.”

“How did they react, when you told them?”

Jack grins, ruefully. “I didn’t.” 

Bittle frowns. “Then how--”

“They caught me. At a party. With Parse.”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Bitty’s eyes are wide, horrified.

“Yeah,” Jack says, grimacing. “I was eighteen. It was mortifying.”

“So what happened?” Bittle asks, his voice soft.

“Well. They couldn’t stop us from seeing each other - we trained together every day, so. Yeah. I had to beg them not to tell Kent’s parents.” Jack can’t bear to see the sympathy on Bittle’s face, so he looks at his hands, and continues, “I think they were more pissed at me for drinking, really, and for being stupid enough to make out with a boy in a closet at a house party where anyone could easily have found us. A few days later my dad sat me down and gave me this long speech about _expectations_ and _conduct_ and the NHL, basically telling me not to be stupid enough to get caught by anyone else.”

“Wow,” says Bittle. “That’s--”

“Not so bad, really,” says Jack.

“Well, it’s not exactly accepting and supportive,” Bittle says.

Jack sighs. “No, I guess not.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a million years later, she updates!
> 
> Sorry guys, this is going to be much slower going than I thought. But it's still trucking on, I've not abandoned these guys!

Jack’s up with the birds the next morning. He lies in bed for as long as he can stand it, before getting up and padding across the hall to Bitty’s room. He knocks softly, to no answer, so slips in the door to find Bittle curled up in a ball on his bed, sheets bunched up at the foot. Jack almost doesn’t want to disturb, but he needs to go for a run and needs to be able to get into the house when he’s done.

A soft touch on Bitty’s leg has him mumbling softly, “Hmm? Wha--?”

“Hey, sorry, I need to go for a run, can you let me back in after?”

A groan, then, “Jack Zimmermann you are the _worst_.”

“Sorry,” he says, but he can’t help but grin.

“Ugh, whatever, I’ll come with you, give me ten minutes.” Eric’s blinking up at him sleepily.

“You sure?”

“Yes, yeah, sure - go wait in the front room, I’ll be out in a tick.”

It doesn’t take long for it to become painfully obvious that they really don’t have the same base speed for distance running, so they head to a park to do some sprints. The sun is already starting to heat the air, and Jack can feel the sweat starting to pool at the base of his spine as he pushes himself harder, forces his muscles to move faster as he tries to out-sprint Bittle. It’s 7 A.M. on a Saturday morning and it’s seventy-five degrees out already and Jack is dripping with sweat and he’s not sure he’s ever been happier.

They get back to the house to find Coach and Suzanne are up and making pancakes. Jack offers to help, but gets told, “No, you absolutely cannot - you’ll drip sweat into the batter. Go shower, both of you!”

“Not together though,” Jack hears Coach mumble and - was that a joke? Jack can’t tell, but Bitty’s shoulders are up by his ears again so Jack reaches out and tries to soothe some of that tension away.

Bitty shoots him a grateful look, before turning towards the bedrooms. “C’mon, let’s shower, we reek.”

They spend the rest of the day preparing for the evening’s barbecue. Bitty and his mom are baking approximately twenty-seven pies in the kitchen, so Jack and Coach have been relegated to the dining room to chop vegetables for the four (four!) different salads.

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and Jack’s nearly elbow-deep in a giant watermelon, when Coach says, “So, Jack.”

Jack looks up. Coach says nothing, just looks at him steadily. Jack can’t take it, so breaks the silence as best he can. “Yes, Mr Bittle?”

“You’re… looking towards your rookie season now.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack says, bracing himself for more NHL speculation and gossip. He doesn’t mind it really, even enjoyed it last night, and it’s good to have something to talk with Bitty’s dad about, but. Well. Last night’s NHL chat at dinner _was_ tiring, and he needs to save some energy for the barbecue this evening.

“How’s that going to work out, then, with you being… that way?”

“Uh,” says Jack. This was not the direction he had anticipated this going. He feels a little like a deer caught in headlights. He swallows. “Uh, me being gay you mean? Sir?”

Coach Bittle shifts, looking about as comfortable as Jack feels. _Good_ , Jack thinks, savagely. _Why the hell bring it up if he’s that uncomfortable._

Jack watches as Coach gives his shoulders a little shake, squares them, and looks Jack dead in the eye as he says, “Yes, that.”

Right. They appear to have reached an impasse of awkwardness, and Jack’s not sure what to say. “I, uh, I guess I’ll… deal with it like all the other gay players have - as best I can.”

“All the other gay players?” Coach Bittle says, eyebrows raised.

Jack can’t help but grin at that. “Well, I’m not exactly the first.”

“You know that?” he sounds sceptical.

“My dad knows people,” says Jack. “He hasn’t named names, but… no, I’m not the first. Or even the only current gay player,” he can’t help but add. _Fucking hell, Zimmermann, don’t out Parse to yet another person._ Luckily, Coach Bittle lets that one pass.

“You’re not planning on making a spectacle of yourself, then?” And wow, that’s one way of putting it.

“I’m not planning on coming out any time soon, no,” says Jack. “Not unless I’m forced to.”

“You think that’s likely?” Coach Bittle asks.

“I can count the number of people who know for sure on one hand, so, no.” Jack replies. “Not for a little while.”

Friends and neighbours start to arrive in dribs and drabs at around four, and Jack starts to reacquaint himself with the feeling of having exactly the same conversation over and over again. It’s not too exhausting, particularly as none of them seem to follow hockey at all. It’s a relief. Jack can tell Bitty is trying to mediate as best he can, but he’s still running around with Suzanne, finishing up the preparations while Coach starts to set up the grill. 

The extended Bittle family descends en masse at 5 P.M., bringing enormous quantities of beer with them, as well as a sizeable contingent that _does_ follow the hockey. Jack gets swept up in a sea of handshakes and selfies and trying to deflect the slightly-too-personal questions (good practise for press conferences, he supposes).

He’s rescued by Bitty coming to the huddle Jack’s found himself in and announcing that the meat’s done.

The whole family heads out to a nearby field for a fireworks display once it’s dark. There are a couple more groups out there too, all local, and Bitty stays close to Jack all evening, murmurs stories in his ear about everyone they talk to, old stories from high school and before, and Jack can’t help but enjoy their closeness, this feeling that it’s Bittle and him, him and Bitty, up against the world, facing it together.

\--

Jack’s flight out isn’t until the late afternoon, so after another morning run (Bittle refuses to come with him this time) and eggs for breakfast, they head out into Madison to explore.

“There’s really not much to see,” says Bittle, as they wander along the high street. He’s right, there isn’t, but Jack just tilts his face towards the sun and lets it heat his skin as they walk. 

They end up buying tacos from a street vendor for lunch, and spend an hour sat under a tree in a park watching the world go by. Bitty’s got his phone out again, and Jack tries to chirp him about tweeting their lives but -- “Oh! No, see, I’m just looking up recipes,” Bitty says, showing Jack his screen. “I’m trying to share less personal stuff. My follower count’s jumped a lot recently and it’s a bit overwhelming.”

“Oh,” says Jack. “I thought - isn’t that the point of these things? To have lots of followers?”

“Well, yes, I guess, but - I never really expected to have that many followers. It’s up in the thousands now and I’m not sure how to manage it, really.” Bittle blushes, and looks down at his lap. “I never expected the vlog to do that well, but with that and the hockey stuff people are pretty interested.”

“Huh.” Jack’s never really understood internet things - too busy playing hockey in his teenage years when everyone else was discovering chatrooms and message boards and livejournal and facebook. But, “I’ve been having meetings about social media with my team management. I didn’t really pay much attention but I can see if they’ll send me the presentations if you want?”

Bittle promises to help Jack set up a twitter and an Instagram account in exchange (“Oh, you’ll love Instagram - you can be arty really easily and your photography is _so good_ ,”) once Jack’s sent Bittle his PR team’s instructions. (“So I know what you’re allowed to do and say - I don’t want to get you in trouble before you’ve even started the season!) They spend the walk back to the Bittles’ looking at professional photographers’ accounts, and Jack finds himself warming up to the idea.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but I'm determined to finish this. Updates likely to remain slow. Sorry guys!

Prospect camp is strange. Jack has been to two or three camps every summer he’s been at Samwell, but this time is different, he knows: it’s _his_ team camp, or at least it will be so long as he does well enough not to be sent off to cool his heels in the AHL for a season or two. George has been talking to him as though he’s a sure bet for a spot on the roster, but Jack knows that’s part of her job, that’s part of how they tried to get him to sign. (That’s not _why_ he signed, he’s not stupid, he knows how this works, but. Still.) 

Even if George does think he’ll make the roster, Jack knows he has to actually prove himself here, now, to get a spot on the training camp and from there, hopefully, make the team. It’s different to previous years, where all he had to do was play the best hockey he could, and enjoy scrimmaging with truly skilled players. (Not that his Samwell teammates weren’t great, they were, they made a great unit, but -- the individual skill, the raw talent, he found in the other campers, that was something else, something more like what he’d had in the junior leagues.)

His mom calls him on the first evening of the camp. He’s at a bar with the other campers, getting to know the Falcs’ draft picks, trying to make a good impression on his new potential teammates.

There’s a ruckus when she calls - eighteen to twenty-year-old hockey players have a set response to anyone taking a phone call at a social event, which is pretty similar to that of a sixth grader’s.

“Ooh, is that your _girlfriend_?” says Chapman, a twenty-one-year-old who’s spent the past year on the farm team and who really should know better by now. Jack ignores him, and heads outside.

“Hey, mom,” he says, as the cool night air hits his face.

“Hi, sweetie,” comes his mom’s voice, sounding far away down the phone line. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, uh, you know,” he says, trying not to scuff his feet like a sullen teenager and failing miserably. “Prospect camp. Trying to get to know the guys.”

“I’m not interrupting, am I,” his mom says, and Jack can hear the worry in her voice.

“No, mom, it’s fine. I was wanting to get out of there for a bit anyway,” he says, aiming for comforting but feeling like he might have missed the mark.

“Oh, honey, it’s not that bad, is it?” And yeah, he definitely missed the mark.

He does his best to convince her he’s fine, which he _is_ , really, it’s not a lie, and heads back inside to the bar.

Camp passes quickly, and it starts to hit Jack that he’s not just keeping up with these guys, he’s better than them. His face-off win percentage for this camp is better, even, than it was in practise at Samwell. He says as much to Bittle on the phone on the final night of camp.

“Oh, Jack,” Bittle says. “You’re the only one who’s surprised at that.”

“I don’t--” Jack starts.

“You’re _amazing_ , Jack. You could have left us Wellies and headed for the NHL whenever you wanted, you have to know that,” Bittle says, and Jack can’t help but think, _you’re wrong_.

“I think,” Jack says, slowly, carefully, “I think I had a lot to learn from you guys before I could get here. You especially, Bittle. You’ve made me a better person, not just a better player.”

And, yeah, there it is.

“Oh,” Bittle exhales, softly. “Well, thanks, Jack. You know I’ve learnt a lot from you, too.”

The moment stretches, and Jack can hear Bittle breathing quietly on the other end of the line.

“Ha,” Jack says. “One of these days you might even check someone yourself, eh.” 

The tension breaks as Bittle laughs and chirps Jack right back. 

\----

Jack’s invitation to the Falconers’ rookie tournament and pre-season training camp comes in the form of a meeting with George in late July, three days after the end of prospect camp. 

Jack sits there for a minute, trying not to squirm, before George finally starts, “You know, Jack, we’ve all been very impressed with what we’ve seen from you these past couple of months.”

Oh.

“Uh, thanks--”

“So of course we are all really looking forward to seeing what you can do in the rookie tournament and pre-season training in September.”

And that’s a relief. He can feel a grin breaking through, despite his best efforts to keep it under wraps. “That’s great, George, thanks.”

“I’ve got to say, Jack, from what I’ve seen so far, you’re not going to struggle to make the roster this season.” George settles back in her chair, smiling a little. “I’m not making any promises here, you understand, but we can see someone with your skill-set fitting in very well here in Providence.”

“I get it,” Jack says. “Thanks, George. That’s really good to hear.”

They talk logistics for a little longer - off-season training plans, the resources available for him, who to get in touch with first for advice - things he’s been told before but it’s reassuring to have reiterated now that the management has seen him officially over camp. He’s getting up, ready to leave, when George says, “And, Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“If you need anything at all that you can’t get from the staff or Bergy or the As, don’t hesitate to get in touch with me, okay? My door’s always open.”

He looks at her, and gets the feeling that she really means it. He’s not great at reading people, but he’s always got this feeling about George, and in that moment he’s so glad he chose this team. “Thanks, George.”

“See you around, okay? Don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come and say hi on [tumblr](nevermindedanyway.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/ineverminded)!


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